


Coffee & Tattoos

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Body Modification, Drama, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Humor, Implied Relationships, Light Angst, M/M, Male Slash, POV First Person, Snape Lives, Snape Snark, Werewolf Senses, overuse of the word "fuck"
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-18
Updated: 2012-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-24 08:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1597700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You again? Your morbid curiosity simply knows no bounds. Fine, come in and take a seat, since you insist on dragging this story from me. I'm warning you now, however, that I won't brook interruptions, and if I catch one word of this in The Prophet, I will hunt you down and kill you slowly. Now, then. It was an accident . . ."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee & Tattoos

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted May 18th 2012 at HP Fandom for a friend's birthday. Edited upon re-posting here. 
> 
> Betaed by GhostxWriter. 
> 
> Come On, Now: I don't own them. Any of them. I don't even own a pygmy puff, let alone any of the pretty boys.

It was an accident. You _have_ to understand that it was an accident.   
  
I suppose I should start from the beginning.   
  


***

  
  
We were celebrating our victory; the Dark Lord had fallen. It was almost anti-climactic. All those years serving as a dancing puppet on a string to an insane madman, and Potter simply marched right up to him and decapitated him with the Sword of Gryffindor. The Death Eaters fell into chaos, and were rounded up with absurd ease.   
  
Everyone was at Hogwarts, celebrating. There was a ludicrous amount of dancing, drinking, and partying taking place, with a dignified escape from the so-called festivities a sheer impossibility. I decided that I would rather hover in the corner than take any active part in the drunken revels, and thus I was in an opportune position to observe what was taking place.   
  
Harry Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, was sitting on the floor in the far corner of the Hall, miserable. Not slightly miserable; he was _somebody-lock-me-up-before-I-jump-in-the-lake-and-beg-the-squid-to-eat-me_ miserable. (His words after the fact--not mine.)  
  
Naturally, I had to investigate further.   
  
“Really, Potter? Sulking in corners? Isn’t that a touch melodramatic, what with your adoring fans awaiting the chance to throw themselves at your feet in gratitude?” I drawled sarcastically.   
  
“Really, Snape? Still acting like a fucking bastard? Isn’t that a touch pretentious, what with the fact that I just saved your sorry bat-winged arse from your psycho master?” he replied bitterly, gesturing with the bottle of Firewhisky in his hand.   
  
I have to admit, I was impressed. That took balls--ones I had been relatively certain the boy didn’t have. Mind you, I suspected at the time that it was merely the liquid courage he had imbibed doing the talking.   
  
“My, my, Potter. What’s the matter? You have to sit here in a strop now that no one is showering you with worship?”   
  
He pushed himself up, much steadier on his feet than I had expected, given the amount of alcohol I assumed he’d ingested. To be fair, he _was_ holding a half-empty bottle of liquor when I found him.   
  
“You know what, Snape? Fuck you and the broomstick you rode in on.” I was once again impressed by the sheer nerve of the insolent whelp, though, honestly? I should have known better--I had been attempting to teach the Gryffindor brat for years. “It’s not _about_ you. It’s not about the sodding fan-club you seem to think I love prying into my life. If you can’t wrap your greasy head around why this might be less than fan-fucking-tastic for me, then maybe your reputation for brilliance has been greatly exaggerated.”   
  
At the end of his diatribe, he pushed off from the wall he’d been leaning against, and tried to brush past me. I caught hold of his robes and spun him to face me before he walked away.   
  
“Do you have any idea the punishment I could dole out for your blatant lack of respect?” I hissed in his face, less out of anger than to simply push him. Everyone else was having fun; I believed that I deserved to cash in on my share. (And, _yes_ , Potter-baiting is my preferred form of amusement. Then _and_ now.)   
  
His young face twisted into an ugly expression, angry and bitter and hurt. “I couldn’t fucking care less. Now let go of me.”   
  
“I don’t think you’re in any position to give orders, Mr. Potter. You are at Hogwarts, and therefore, under the authority of its staff, which includes me.” I countered smoothly.  
  
he snarled. I shifted, gripping his arm, but before I could utter a syllable I was blasted off my feet, landing a short distance away and having completely lost my grip on the boy. When I rose to my feet, I looked at him. I looked at him and I truly _saw_ him.   
  
He was alone, cut off from his friends and the adoring fans I insinuated he had; they were all celebrating being alive and (for the vast majority) in love. Potter was here, sitting in the corner of the Great Hall for some quality time with a bottle of Firewhisky.   
  
Worlds away from the happy, carefree and (quite frankly) debauched attitude pervading the partyers, Potter seemed . . . dangerously unbalanced. t remove him to a safe distance, I feared that his impending explosion would cause mass casualties in the Great Hall. This, of course, completely discounted the damage that kind of magical backlash could have inflicted upon Potter himself.   
  
And-- _really--_ I had invested _far_ too much of my (rather precious) time keeping Potter and the other herds of students safe to be able to quit cold-turkey. It was still a gut-wrenching compulsion at that point in time.   
  
I leaned in to whisper in his ear, “Come with me, Potter. I think it would benefit us both to remove ourselves from the Hall.”   
  
He snorted. “Of course it would, Snape. But every time I try to leave there’s practically a fucking riot.”   
  
I smiled then. It wasn’t a nice smile. “Leave that part to me. All that’s required of you is your acting skills, such as they are. Can you manage that?”   
  
“Almost as well as you can,” he replied with obvious contempt. I was almost starting to enjoy being in the brats’ company--a sure sign I was losing my (admittedly tenuous) grip on sanity.   
  
Winding one hand loosely in the trademark disheveled black mop, I gave a gentle tug and began striding towards the double doors on the other side of the room, berating the boy I was “dragging” every step of the way. “Absolutely disgraceful! Your poor mother is probably rolling in her grave, boy! I’m sure even your father would ashamed of your behaviour, and James Potter never knew the meaning of the word!”

Potter, meanwhile, played his part brilliantly, hissing, screeching and struggling every step of the way. “You leave my father out of this!” he snarled, attempting to claw at the hand gripping his hair. In truth, my grip wouldn’t have held a Bowtruckle.   
  
“Years! Years, Potter! I have been subject to your insolent, disrespectful behaviour for _years_ , but this is, quite simply, utterly crass. One would think that at the celebration of your victory, your repulsive arrogance could afford a little tolerance, if not grace, for a comrade-in-arms.”   
  
“Let go of me, you psychotic bat! You’ve flipped your fucking gourd!”   
  
We were almost out of the Great Hall when McGonagall decided that she was going to rescue Precious Potter once _again_. The fact that he actually was innocent this time did nothing to temper the sudden flare of irritation. I cut her off as she opened her mouth, before she had spoken a single word. “Not this time, Minerva. No one is making any excuses for the insolent brat this time. If he can’t be gracious after his _heroic victory_ , then he deserves to suffer the consequences. Merlin knows he should have felt the sting of his actions before now.”   
  
Potter chose that moment to speak up. Honestly, the boy had better instincts than I’d thought possible, given how many times he’d survived some misadventure by dumb luck alone.   
  
“Professor, you’ve got to help me, he’s gone positively spare--”  
  
“ _One_ more word, Potter. One more word is all it will take. If you don’t fear what I have in store for you now, just open your mouth again.” It would be a lie of gross proportions to say that I wasn’t enjoying myself.  
  
Swallowing convulsively, Minerva tried again. “Severus? Is this really necessary?” she asked calmly, but her eyes betrayed her concern.   
  
“I suppose not.”   
  
She smiled brightly. “Oh, good! Then why don’t we all--"  
  
“Of course, I can simply call the Aurors and have him taken to Azkaban until formally charged. That really would make matters so much simpler. Though he will, in all likelihood, be pardoned for his crimes given his ‘ _marvelous feats_ ’ of heroism.”   
  
Her smile disappeared as if her face had no idea how to form one. “Well, then, perhaps you’re right, Severus. I shall leave you to attend to Mr. Potter’s misconduct.”   
  
I sneered before swooping away, the brat in tow. Said brat twisted in my grip to shoot a pleadingly apologetic look at his Head of House before we turned the corner. I didn’t release my grip on him. There was still the possibility of a chance encounter. (And I would be a liar if I said that I didn’t enjoy dragging Potter around by the hair. It had long been a desire of mine, but Albus would never have allowed it, mores the pity. The brat truly does have a talent for being irritating.)   
  
I finally let the brat go when we had reached the door to my private rooms. Muttering the password quietly, I grasped Potter's arm to haul him inside.   
  
And was promptly thrown off my feet once again.   
  
When I’d hauled myself up off the floor (thinking, not for the first time, _I am too fucking old for this shite_ ) Potter and I were both inside my quarters, and he was standing just inside the door, which (miracles _do_ happen) he’d had the foresight to shut.   
  
Looking through narrowed eyes at the way the boy was holding himself, the pieces suddenly formed a cohesive whole.   
  
“Potter!” I barked, “Robes off.”   
  
He flashed an expression of sheer incredulity before replying, “You really have lost it, did you know that?”  
  
“I want to know what it is you’re hiding.” I ground out, quickly losing patience. After all, I _had_ just saved the little snot from the so-called “festivities” upstairs.   
  
“Under my robes? The only thing I’m hiding under there is me, and I highly doubt that you’d be interested, Snape,” he sniggered.   
  
I closed my eyes as I fought the urge to wrap my large, bony hands around his scrawny, fragile neck. “Potter, don’t play stupid. Others can reach that conclusion without any help whatsoever from you.”   
  
“It . . . it wasn’t intentional, I swear,” he said, his voice and expression strained.   
  
“All the more reason to tell me, I should think, seeing as I am the one you have blasted off their feet twice now with accidental magic.” I tried to keep the acid from my voice, I swear. (I just wasn’t noticeably successful.)  
  
“Look, I’m sorry that it happened, okay? And I appreciate the fact that you’ve brought me down here, away from the fucking madhouse upstairs. But if you could just show me some dark corner where I can have a couple shots of this Firewhisky and sleep without having to worry about any other person finding me, I’d be grateful to you for the rest of my life.” His tone was defensive, but his eyes told another story. There was a flicker there . . . of what, I wasn’t able to determine. He kept trying to mask it, and wouldn’t hold my gaze.   
  
I decided to try a different tack.   
  
“Look, don’t you think that you’ve had enough to drink already?” I probed, one eyebrow raised.   
  
He snorted. “Hardly. I don’t think one shot counts as sweet fuck-all at the moment, to be perfectly honest.”   
  
Well. That was curious, given the half-empty liquor bottle he was still clutching, though it did explain why he was steadier on his feet than I would have otherwise expected. I suppose his words earlier had simply been motivated by his sheer Gryffindor stupidity. But then, I had never credited the boy with an overabundance of brains.   
  
I sighed. “Potter . . . Do the both of us a favour, and come clean with whatever it is you’re trying to keep from me. I know it has something to do with that arm,” I nodded toward his left side, “and I know that it must be serious. So, stop being thickheaded and just tell me so that I don’t have to take drastic measures.”   
  
He huffed a dramatic sigh, and rolled his eyes before answering. “I just . . . I took some random spell-fire, alright? It hurts at the moment, but I’d rather wait until tomorrow morning to go and get fussed at by Pomfrey.”   
  
I pinched the bridge of my nose as I once again battled the intense urge to throttle him for all I was worth. Once I had my murderous impulses (mostly) under control, I spoke. “ _Random spell-fire_? Do you have any idea what hit you? Have you the slightest inkling of the degree of seriousness of the damage?” I spoke with my eyes closed, because if I had looked at him, I might’ve given in to the temptation to kill him.   
  
“It can’t be any worse than what I’ve picked up over the course of the last few battles.”   
  
My eyes flew open in time to see him shrug. “That’s it! Robes off, _now_. I’ll not have you do anything half so dramatic as die whilst in my presence, Potter. I haven’t the time to deal with that much paperwork.” I couldn’t help but smirk.   
  
Even Potter chuckled at that one. Still, he ducked his head and took a positively obscene amount of time to undo the buttons on his robes. (And trust me; I would know how long it takes. My own attire routinely boasts no fewer than 56 buttons.) All this was lending to the impression that Potter was trying to preserve more than just his modesty. There was something going on here, and I was determined to find out what.   
  
Finally, when there were no more buttons (and nothing else to do in way of stalling), Potter slid his robes from his shoulders, and stood with them draped over his crossed arms. While his robes may have been nearly pristine, the clothing underneath had obviously seen better days. His jeans were worn thin, with a hole in the left knee, and his t-shirt was stained and singed.  
  
My eyes, however, were drawn to his left arm. A large portion of the flesh was blackened and burnt. It must have been near-excruciating, and the brat wanted to put off medical treatment until tomorrow?  
  
I’d often accused Dumbledore of trying to depict Potter as a saint. The boy was being a fucking martyr. And Merlin’s left nut if that wasn’t what irritated me the most about the whole damn situation.   
  
I walked over slowly, and deliberately caught the boy’s eye before making a move to touch his arm. (Twice-blasted was quite enough, thank you--I didn’t need to try for a third). Cupping the elbow gently, I lifted the arm away from his body. The burn ran diagonally across the outside, luckily missing the tender inner portion that rested against his body. I cast a spell to determine if there was any magical residue lingering in the burn, before releasing the appendage. Potter had been staring intently off to the right, avoiding my gaze.   
  
“So what’s the verdict?” he quipped, still avoiding eye contact.   
  
“That you are absurdly lucky, boy. A basic healing potion should take care of it.” I hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “I would also recommend a potion for the pain.”   
  
“Aw, I didn’t know you cared,” he teased, “but honestly? I don’t think I need it.”   
  
I snorted. “Really? The man you blasted off his feet tends to disagree with that statement.”   
  
“Look, I can manage this until tomorrow morning when I go see Pomfrey. You’ve said yourself that it’s nothing serious, so if you could tell me where I might get some peace and quiet, I’d be grateful.”   
  
I found myself massaging my temples to ward off the impending headache. (Too much exposure to Potter’s hard-headedness tends to do that to me.)   
  
“I am the Potions Master, Potter, and thus, can easily provide what it is you require.” I deliberately avoided the topic of ‘peace and quiet’.   
  
He waved a hand. “Look, Snape, it’s fine, honestly. I just really, really need to get some sleep right now. I need to be alone.”   
  
I glared at the brat. I had tried to be _nice_ , offering to take care of his injuries, and he seemed more concerned with fleeing than the fact that untreated burns typically developed infections that would make a grown giant weep. And I suspected that the brat was still trying to hide something--it was evident in the lines of tension painting his body. I was rapidly losing patience with his shenanigans. So I went for the kill.   
  
“I see, Potter. You’re in such a hurry to flee from the man who just saved your miserable arse upstairs that you’re willing to delay medical treatment? Or is this about what you’re trying to hide?” I saw the skin around his eyes tense slightly, and pressed on. “And while I may have rescued you from the debauched, drunken mayhem upstairs, you are sorely lacking in intelligence if you believe that I will leave you alone.”   
  
“What the hell is your problem? I’m grateful, okay? I just want to get some peace and quiet, and I figured that you’d want the same! So excuse the fuck outta me for trying to be considerate!” His eyes snapped with barely-suppressed fury.   
  
And that was the moment my grip on sanity slipped. I know this, because the next words out of my mouth were as follows: “Potter! A blind man could see that the very _last_ thing you need right now is to be alone!”   
  
I watched the emotions flit across his face, each one only lasting a fraction of a second before it was replaced: surprise, hurt, disbelief, resignation. Finally his face hardened with determination. “I appreciate what you’re saying, but it’s not your problem. From as near as I can figure, all you’ve ever wanted was some peace and space and the ability to be alone. I think you’ve earned that after all you’ve done, so I’m going to leave now.” He gestured towards the door before turning his back on me to walk away.   
  
With a casual flick of my wand, I spelled the door shut, and another wave warded it so none could pass. Silencing Charms were embedded in the very stones of walls down here in the dungeons, so there was no need to worry about any passersby overhearing. (And yes, I was aware that it was unlikely anyone would be passing through there, so yes, I was being paranoid. I’d been a double-agent for near twenty years at that point--my paranoia had been _earned_. Several times over.)   
  
“No, you’re not leaving here,” I stated quietly. “I may be a bastard, but I’ve been looking after students as long as you’ve been alive. If you think that I will suddenly abandon that ethic now, you are sorely mistaken.”  
  
His shoulders slumped, and he spoke without turning around. “Look, if you insist, I’ll take the potions, okay? But I really do need to be alone right now.”   
  
“Stay right there. I’ll be back in a moment,” I ordered smoothly before sweeping into the hallway of my quarters, to the cupboard where I stored my private stock of potions. Opening the door, my eyes swept over the row where I kept the more common ones. Brushing past the headache remedies and vials of Dreamless Sleep, I grasped a vial of a basic healing potion, and another vial containing a mild analgesic for the pain. That particular combination of medicinal potions often temporarily incapacitated the recipient, and while another potion sat there on my shelf that would have no such effects, I didn’t even consider it.   
  
As I walked back into my sitting room, I saw Potter in the front alcove, his back resting against the door, as if he were merely counting the seconds before he could run through it and escape my presence. I nearly lost the battle as my lips twitched, threatening to turn up into an amused grin.   
  
“Here, Potter. Take these before you accidentally blow something up by brushing against it.” I drawled, extending one arm, offering the two glass vials in my hand.   
  
“Thanks, Snape,” he muttered quietly, taking the vials and downing them in quick succession. I was slightly taken aback at the trust inherent in that gesture--I could have poisoned him, for all he knew. The potions started taking effect almost immediately, and I watched as Potter’s face went white (well, whit _er_ ) and he leaned against the wall as the dizziness washed over him.   
  
“Potter, you should really sit down,” I said smoothly, invading the boy’s personal space to steer him into an armchair.   
  
“You set this up, you bastard,” he slurred ever-so-slightly.   
  
Once again, I was impressed; I hadn’t believed him capable of such deductions. Then again, he may have been working off of his prejudices toward me rather than through application of his (rather dubious) reasoning skills.   
  
“Yes, Potter, I lured you down here to my villainous lair, where I forced you to ingest healing potions and then saved you from falling on your face. Oh doomed boy, quake in your Gryffindor boots, for I have you in my evil clutches now,” I responded while quirking an eyebrow sardonically.   
  
The boy at least had the good grace to look abashed; the fact that he was _entirely_ correct had been neither here nor there.   
  
“Er, right then. Sorry about that,” he muttered, his face flushing slightly.   
  
I took a seat opposite him. I wanted to watch for when the interactions between the potions began creating Veritaserum-like effects. It didn’t take long. For the first few moments, lines of tension painted his face and body, while his eyes flickered about the room, never truly seeing. Then, his gaze settled on a point someplace to his right, and some of his tension eased. That was when I knew it was the time to strike, though tact was going to be of the utmost importance; while he would feel compelled to speak the truth, it was something that he could resist, if he directed sufficient effort to the task. The boy could, after all, completely resist the Imperius.   
  
“Potter, what had you sitting in the corner upstairs, rather than celebrating in a drunken, lecherous haze with the rest?” I inquired, injecting a suitable amount of curiosity into my voice, so as to prevent arousing his suspicion.   
  
“A lot of things,” he answered softly, almost more to himself than to me. “I was thinking, mostly.”  
  
“Dangerous thoughts they must have been, to have produced such a demeanour,” I said smoothly, prompting him to continue. I had to ruthlessly quash the urge to snark--it had been on the tip of my tongue to ask him if thinking had been painful.  
  
“Dangerous,” he repeated darkly. “They were dangerous, of a sort,” he continued, his gaze meeting mine before flicking away again.   
  
When he neglected to elaborate, I nudged him again. “Are they so dangerous that you cannot share them with a former Death Eater?”   
  
He laughed humourlessly. “When you put it that way, then yeah, I s’pose I can tell you,” he took a sip from the bottle of liquor before he went on. “I was sitting there, and it hit me--I killed him. I _killed_ him. I’ve killed. And I know that I have in the battles before today, but this is the first time I’ve had enough space between one breath and the next to really try to wrap my head around that idea. And once my head got properly wrapped, I was not a happy Harry.  
  
“I’ve taken lives, killed, _murdered_. Call it whatever you bleeding well want to, because it doesn’t change the fact that I have. And I realized--"  
  
I rolled my eyes as I cut him off. “You Gryffindor sap--no, the act of destroying an insane madman in the defense of others does not make you _just like them_. Emotions such as guilt and regret are utterly useless, and foolish besides,” I sneered, anticipating his childish completion of that thought.   
  
But he surprised me.   
  
“You’ve got it all wrong, Snape,” he said, his voice only slightly louder than a whisper. “My realization, the one that bloody scared me shitless, is that I don’t regret it.” He pinned me with his stare. “I’ve cast Unforgiveables, and I’ve fucking _killed_ people, and I don’t regret a thing. If I had to start over at the beginning, I wouldn’t change a bollicking thing I’ve done--except maybe that I’d start killing them sooner, just to save the people I care about.   
  
“But how can I end other’s lives without remorse? With satisfaction, even? How does that make me any different than the monsters I put down?”   
  
The silence hung between us, heavy and hot, for a long moment, before I found my voice.   
  
“Because you are capable of reflecting on your actions. You have a conscience, Potter--something the Dark Lord and his followers utterly lacked,” I replied to the metaphorical questions he’d posed. His maturity and mindset astounded me. It was hard for me to believe at that moment that I had thought him a boy--he’d fought and won a war, growing up in the process, despite the appearances to the contrary.  
  
“Yeah, well, it is what it is,” he said with a shrug. “I feel steadier, so I think I’ll take off. The Room would probably give me what I’m after right now, though if push comes to shove I can always kip in a broom closet.”  
  
He set the bottle of Firewhiskey down on the floor beside the chair before he got up, and began heading towards the door. In my frustration--I hadn’t dismissed him, and I wasn’t convinced that he wouldn’t lose his temper and blow up half the castle--I also rose from my seat, and stalked over to him. Reaching out my hand and gripping the insolent wretch round the back of the neck, my words died on my lips as intense heat flashed under my hand, only to be quickly replaced by the tingle of magic.   
  
My hand fell from him, and I stared at the appendage, wondering if I’d imagined it. It had happened so quickly, you understand.   
  
Potter had turned around slowly to face me, his expression curiously blank. That was when I knew I hadn’t imagined it. That blank, cow-like expression of his? He only used to wear it when he was trying to hide something, or think his way out of his most current misadventure (usually attempting to worm his way out of punishment for his most recent episode of rule-flouting).  
  
“Potter, what the sodding hell was that?” I asked curtly.   
  
“Er . . .” he trailed off, his expression momentarily tense.   
  
“Potter!” I nearly shouted. I was well and truly at the end of my patience with him. (Though, honestly, I felt deserving of sainthood for the restraint I had shown up until then.)   
  
“I have no idea what you mean,” he said flatly, but his eyes were hopeful. I was having none of it.   
  
I stalked toward the man, who--alarmed by the change in my demeanour, I assume--stepped backwards. I kept advancing, and he kept losing ground, until he was backed against a wall. He was silent and tense, though he remained unafraid.   
  
“This is your last chance, Potter. Tell me exactly what just happened, or suffer the consequences,” I whispered threateningly, using the tone that frequently made first-years cry. His only response was his determined expression as he held his tongue.   
  
“Very well, then. The hard way it is,” I muttered. Moving quickly, I planted my hands on the young man’s shoulders (wondering when, exactly, they had grown so broad) and I spun him so his back was to me. Then I laid my hand on the back of his neck again--and once more experienced that peculiar sensation, the heat chased by the tingling. As I was crowded against him to keep him in place, I felt the same intense heat flash over his back. I had completely lost patience with the brat’s prevarications and excuses. So I Vanished his shirt.   
  
And then stared.   
  
His muscles were less defined than I’d expected, somehow. (And no, I don’t care to elaborate on how often I had or had not pictured Potter unclothed.) As I looked, I realized that underneath that peculiar tingle of magic, there was the subtle vibration of a glamour charm at work. I cancelled it. And then, I regret to inform you, my jaw dropped open as I lost the ability to breathe.   
  
His body was the most glorious sight I had ever laid eyes on.   
  
His skin was a smooth, light tan--a warm, mouth-watering hue. I knew just by looking at it that he would taste sinful. His muscles rippled as he fought against my hold (which was growing more lax the longer I stared), showcasing just how much physical effort he’d put into winning that damned war. (What? You didn’t think it was _all_ wand-waving, did you?) But as enticing as his body was, that wasn’t what had captured – and held – my attention, causing me to stare in a rather gormless fashion.  
  
It was the tattoo. He had a phoenix tattoo.   
  
The head of the phoenix was nestled at the base of his neck, level with his shoulders. The brilliant feathers that made up the crest on the phoenix’s head swept up the back of his neck, with the longest feathers’ tips ending behind his right ear. The neck of the phoenix arched sinuously in the space between spine and scapula, before joining with the graceful body at mid-back.   
  
The wings, however, were truly breathtaking. Arching up from the body, over the young man’s shoulder blades until the peak of their arch was the full span of his shoulders, at the tops of his arms. The beautiful plumage extended asymmetrically downwards on either side, covering almost the entirety of his back. The wing on the left wrapped around him, slightly; the feathers covered part of his ribcage and side, the longest of them dipping below the waistband of those horrid denims he was wearing. The wing on the right was held at a different angle, and only the ends of the plumage curled around his torso--though where they ended I couldn’t determine, as they too disappeared into his (damned) denims.   
  
The body of the phoenix was graceful and elegant, though I couldn’t see the tail (if it had one) as the lower portion of the body disappeared into the boy’s waistband. Long before I had looked my fill of his body art, the body in question twisted out of my grasp, and I found myself face-to-face with a rather irate Potter.   
  
“Are you fucking satisfied now? Now that you’ve uncovered something that I spent the entire _war_ keeping secret?” His eyes had been snapping with fury.   
  
Despite my focus being somewhat divided--I had been staring at the way the phoenix feathers disappeared into his denims by his right hip--his words caught and held my attention.   
  
“And why would you feel the need to hide such a magnificent tattoo? Surely you got it for the ability to show it off,” I half-asked, puzzled. Heaven knew that such a piece of art _deserved_ to be shown off.  
  
He snorted. “Hardly.”   
  
When he failed to elaborate, I devoted a moment of serious thought to it, and quickly arrived at the answer. “It’s a magical tattoo,” I stated firmly, though I was still unsure as to _why_ he would hide such a breathtaking work of art.   
  
He looked at me sideways, his eyes narrowed, before he slowly said, “Yes.”   
  
My brow furrowed in confusion. (And I’ve always hated being confused.) “If it’s a magical tattoo, then why isn’t it moving?”   
  
He snorted again. “Because inked tattoos _don’t_ move, whether they’re magical or not.”   
  
I can admit now that when he said that, I was impressed. Having that much art _inked_ onto one’s body would have been agonizing--especially if it was a magical tattoo.   
  
“Why would you have it inked?” I asked sharply--I was irritated by the fact that I was impressed by the man.   
  
He sighed, his ire visibly draining away. He slipped his robe on and fastened a handful of buttons, hiding the glorious ink phoenix from view. “Look, since you’ve seen it, I’m obviously going to have to explain. But it’s a long story, so I’m gonna sit down.”   
  
He deposited himself in the chair he had recently vacated, and I took the seat across from him once again. He picked up the bottle of Firewhisky from where he had sat it on the floor beside the chair, and took a sip before he began to explain.   
  
“The summer before the war, Bill and Fleur were going to get married. Ron, Hermione and I had no idea what to get them as a wedding present. About a month before the wedding, Bill came to me, and told me that he knew just what we could get him--he wanted us to be safe.   
  
“Obviously we knew that the war was coming, and that safety was a little difficult to promise. He just grinned and told me that he knew of a way to make it a little more likely. I didn’t know it then, but he and Charlie had been planning to get us to agree to this. Everyone seems to forget that Fred and George have older brothers--they had to learn their shite from _somewhere_.”   
  
“Are your incoherent ramblings heading somewhere, Potter?” I drawled, staring at him intently. I wanted answers. And by Merlin, I wanted to see that tattoo again.   
  
He looked at me, amused. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist. I warned you that this was a long story,” he said wryly. He took another sip of Firewhisky and went on.   
  
“So, Bill tells me that there _is_ a way to help keep us safe, but that it was going to be expensive and we were going to have to keep it secret. And then the ginger bugger said that he’d let me discuss it with Ron and Hermione before telling me anything else,” he snorted. “Of course we were going to agree, but he wanted to pique our curiosity.   
  
“So the next day, Charlie tells me that he wants me to come down to the back field at The Burrow to talk Quidditch--I was a little baffled, but I’d always liked Charlie well enough, so off I went. That was when I found out that Charlie was in on whatever Bill was planning.” He paused there, frowning and spinning the liquor bottle in his hands.   
  
“And this is related to your tattoo, how?” I prompted. (My curiosity was eating me alive. I had to know how _Potter_ , of all people, ended up with such a work of art permanently etched in his flesh.)  
  
“Charlie showed me one of his tattoos. It was a magical one, and it moved. I’d seen it before of course, but,” he paused again, blushing, “I’d never had free licence to stare before. It was gorgeous.   
  
“Charlie told me about the difference in magical versus Muggle tattoos, and that--for a price--you can get magical tattoos to do just about anything you want. Well, that was when the pieces started to make sense. I asked him what exactly Bill had in mind, but all he would say right then was that I needed to ask Ron and Hermione how they felt about it, and that we each needed to come up with a design.   
  
“The talk with my best friends didn’t go too well.” The look on his face indicated that that was a massive understatement, but I didn’t push the matter. There would be time for that later.   
  
“The two of them eventually agreed, and picked out symbols. I found Charlie the next day and told him we were going to do it. He nodded, and told me that the five of us--Ron, Hermione, and myself, plus Bill and Charlie--would be leaving that night, at half one, to go and have them done. He figured that everyone would be asleep then.   
  
“So . . . that’s what happened. We left quietly at half-past one that night, and showed up at the shop where Charlie’d had his work done. Bill told us then that we were going to be getting anti-Polyjuice tattoos, but--”  
  
“Excuse me? Anti-Polyjuice _tattoos_?” I cut him off, suddenly livid. A measure such as that should have been made available to every member of the Order.   
  
“Yeah, I know,” He said. I looked at him sharply--and was surprised that he looked so weary. “If it were up to me, every member of the Order would have had them, but . . . the only reason that they were so effective was that they were secret. If anyone was captured, they couldn’t be made to tell what they didn’t know. If the Death Eaters knew that we all had them, they could try to mimic the tattoos with a spell, making them completely worthless. _That_ was why we kept them a secret. ”   
  
I pondered this for a moment. The sheer soundness and logic of the argument derailed my fury somewhat. I nodded at him to continue.   
  
“Anyway, once we got there, Hermione kicked up a bit of a fuss. She said that if magical tattoos could do almost anything, then she wanted me shielded from curses. Like _Protego_ set into my skin--only stronger.   
  
“What followed was a very long, drawn-out--and really, rather amusing argument between Hermione and the tattooist. He told her that he could do it, but that the problem with what she was suggesting was that the protection would be limited to where the tattoo was. Hermione was frustrated by that, but eventually she gave in.   
  
“She wanted me to get the tattoo as large as possible, so that it would provide the most protection. Of course, then the tattooist piped up and said that it was unlikely anyone could handle that--having a magical tattoo _inked_ is more painful than having a Muggle one inked, he said, because of the magical properties being imbedded in the skin. I mean, I kind of liked the idea but I wasn’t real keen on having my whole body tattooed, you know? I didn’t want to be stuck with glamour charms and long sleeves my whole life.   
  
“Finally I just told them that we were wasting time, and that they should go first. We’d worry about me later. Hermione looked like she wanted to argue some more, but Ron stripped off his shirt and sat himself in the chair.   
  
“In the end, Ron had the Sword of Gryffindor inked onto his left shoulder blade. I’d never heard him cuss so much before. It got so bad that Bill and Charlie were killing themselves laughing. It made Hermione pretty nervous, but she handled it better than Ron did. After the first whimper--when the needle first touched her, y’know--she was quiet the whole way through. She has an eagle-feather quill across her lower back.   
  
“Then it was my turn. I asked for a few minutes to talk to the tattooist, privately, before I went through with anything.” His face was flushing a deep red, and he took another sip of liquid courage before he went on. “I asked him about Hermione’s idea. I’d decided that I wanted a phoenix, but I thought her idea had merit. I know that the tattooist was going on about how much it hurt, but really? I figured it would be worth it.   
  
“He took my idea of the phoenix, and said that he could make it extend over a large portion of my body. Unfortunately, it would take a long time to cover so much area. The major thing was the cost; I’d already told Ron and Hermione that I’d pay for theirs, and they weren’t cheap. But the one that I planned on getting? Yeah. I was going to have to take a real chunk out of the Black vault to pay for it.   
  
“The downside, of course, was that I was going to have to seriously strip down to make this thing possible. I wasn’t really comfortable with that. I mean, with Ron, yeah--we’d shared a dorm at school for six years, and we were on the same Quidditch team. He’d already seen my scrawny, naked arse. More than once.   
  
“Hermione though . . . I didn’t want my _female_ best friend seeing my naked hide. I wasn’t real thrilled at the thought of Bill or Charlie seeing me that way, either. To tell the honest truth, I was really, really glad that Charlie planned on Obliviating the tattooist once this was all said and done. That was the only thing that let me even consider stripping down for a total stranger.”  
  
When he lapsed into silence, staring into my fireplace, I waited. After a minute or so, I was losing patience. I wanted to get to the bottom of this story (and not purely to sate my academic curiosity about the endeavour). “And?” I asked, drawing the word out.   
  
He downed a rather large gulp of liquor before he looked at me, looked away, and--staring at the fire--began speaking once more.   
  
“I sent everyone out of the room, and then stripped my shirt off. I figured, _one thing at a time_ , yeah? I knew that most of it would be across my back. Hermione had had a good point about being attacked from behind. But anyway, I figured that I’d deal with taking off my trousers once it became totally necessary. The tattooist had me sit in the chair first, to do the phoenix head. I managed to stay quiet, mostly through not breathing, I think, until he got to the feathers that went behind my ear. I, uh, kinda yelped at that--that spot is more sensitive than I’d thought.”   
  
My eyes went slightly glassy at the thought--and I wondered just how sensitive that spot was. Once I realized where my thoughts were heading, I gave myself a mental slap and focussed on what the mouth-wateringly tattooed brat was saying.   
  
“So, yeah. After most of my back was done, I was really shattered. Taking off my trousers wasn’t as big a deal as I thought it was--mostly I just wanted the fucking thing finished. Getting back on the table was _not_ something I wanted to do, but leaving it unfinished wasn’t really an option either.   
  
“Once he got to my ribs--on the left, the wing of the phoenix--I started crying. I didn’t even realize it at the time. I rolled back onto my stomach so he could start on my lower back. That was apparently when the crying became really obvious. I started making noise.   
  
“I mean, I didn’t know it at the time; I was just focussed on breathing and living through getting the fucking thing done. In the beginning, I kept on reminding myself that there was a reason for this, that it mattered, that it would help keep me and the other people I cared about safe from the Death Eaters, because no one would be able to pass themselves off as me. After a while under the needle, though . . . I just really didn’t care about that anymore. I mean, yeah, it was there, and I _knew_ that I had good reasons to get this done, but . . . I was seriously past thinking.   
  
“Charlie came in at that point. He sat on the floor beside the table, took my hand, and just . . . talked. He talked about anything and everything. Quidditch, and his time at Hogwarts, and dragons. It didn’t really make a whole lot of sense, but it gave me something to focus on besides the bloody needle. Course … I _really_ noticed when it was time for me to turn over. I’m pretty sure that if I’d blushed any harder, I’d’ve died from blood loss. Charlie just chuckled at me, said that it was no big deal. As the tattooist finished up, Charlie started whispering other things in my ear . . . things that I still can’t repeat now, or I’m sure that the Firewhisky and embarrassment will make me pass out.   
  
“Suffice to say that Charlie was gay, and really, really into tattoos. And brunets.” He cleared his throat, and gulped a bit _more_ alcohol. Really, I should have stopped him from drinking so much, but it was making him talkative and (I sincerely hoped) freeing him from his inhibitions. “So, yeah. The tattooist finished up, and told me that he was impressed. We arranged for payment through Gringott’s--I knew that they would be discreet about the whole thing, and Voldemort wasn’t likely to get anything out of the goblins, because they don’t trust wizards, period.   
  
“I’d just gotten my pants on, and was about to pull on my trousers, when Bill, Ron, and Hermione walked in. The looks on their faces was pretty priceless. Hermione told me that it was beautiful. Ron just said that he thought I was a nutter.” Potter smiled fondly, remembering. He then lapsed into silence.   
  
“You said it was anti-Polyjuice? How does that manifest?” I asked. He may have told me the story behind the tattoo, but my curiosity hadn’t been sated yet. Not by a long shot.   
  
“If someone tries to Polyjuice into me, the tattoo won’t Polyjuice with them. They’ll look like me, but the tattoo won’t be there,” he explained softly. “Well, then there’s the verification, too. That’s what you felt when you touched it--the flash of heat--confirming that I am Harry James Potter, the one and only, and not some imposter.”   
  
I took a moment to consider what he had told me, pieces of information filed away during the war now falling into place, forming a more cohesive portrait. But there were still a few things that didn’t fit. “And that was why Miss Granger, and three of the Mr. Weasleys were able to verify your identity. It does not, however, explain why Lupin was able to do so.”   
  
“It was his damned nose,” he laughed. “The next day I had to ask Bill if he had a pain potion--I had bled in a lot of places during the inking, and I was really raw, even though it had scabbed over. Wearing clothing _hurt_ but I couldn’t very well wander ‘round starkers.”   
  
I had to draw on my considerable store of self-discipline in my attempt not to delight in the mental image he had so casually laid out before me.   
  
“Remus showed up at The Burrow, and smelled the blood on us. Then of course, when he came to me for his hello-hug, he smelled the pain. It was too close to the full moon--all his senses were heightened--so there was really no way to hide it from him. It was a bit of an unforeseen complication, but we managed it.” He shrugged nonchalantly. “Charlie and Bill took him aside and explained things. Remus wanted to see them--he wanted to be able to know how to tell that we were _us_ , and he was curious besides.   
  
“He liked Ron and Hermione’s ink; he thought it really suited them. Theirs were bothering them too, but--lucky for them--they were able to get away with wearing loose tops. Me, though . . . I thought he was going to have an aneurysm. He couldn’t believe how big I’d had mine done. And then he said something to the effect of _if your parents were alive they would tan your tattooed hide--and if it weren’t for the fact that this thing is serving a purpose, and a bleeding good one, I’d tan it for them_.” Potter flashed me a cheeky grin. “Of course, then he mentioned that Sirius would’ve been thrilled, and probably taken me to a beach first thing to show it off. Remus was the one who suggested that I grow my hair out a bit, to hide the bits on my neck until it was healed enough to use a glamour charm.  
  
“But, yeah, other than those of us who actually _got_ inked, only Bill, Charlie, and Remus knew about them. Still, it was important. Those tattoos saved our hides, too.”   
  
While I was intrigued by his last statement (and, make no mistake, I dragged that tale from him later) I was much more interested in that tattoo of his, now that the mystery of it had been explained. Of course, the issue was whether or not Potter would oblige me. And while I certainly hoped that he would, the small, rational, moralistic corner of my mind was shrieking insistently that it was a _patently_ bad idea. You see, I’ve always had a great appreciation for body art. (Fine--since you want to be so tactless--it’s really more of an obsession. Satisfied now?)   
  
“Hmm,” I hummed quietly. “Tell, me, Potter, since I am now one of the privileged few who know about this, and the war is over--as the madness upstairs can attest--would you mind if I looked over the ink again?” I asked smoothly.   
  
He looked at me consideringly for a moment before replying. “I s’pose it couldn’t hurt anything. Seems weird, though. I’ve spent so long making sure that _no one_ sees it that I’ve almost forgotten myself what it looks like,” he said slowly. I tried to quash the little voice screaming _victory!_ in my head.   
  
He stood up, and unbuttoned the robes he was wearing. Taking them off and casually draping them across the back of the chair he had just vacated, he then turned around. My breath caught as I stared freely. I rose from my own seat, crossing the short space to where he stood, staring at the phoenix reverently.   
  
It was a stunning piece of work--a veritable spectrum of pale yellows and deep golds, of vibrant orange and delicate peach hues, of pale reds and deep crimson. It sparkled and shimmered in the light, almost aglow with the magic imbedded in his skin. The phoenix was proud, the look in its eye fierce and determined.   
  
I ran my fingertips softly down one of the wings. Tracks of heat, followed by the tingle of Potter’s magical signature, trailed in their wake. The young man before me shivered, goosebumps breaking out across his skin, but otherwise showed no reaction.   
  
As my eyes wandered upwards, they followed the line of the feathered crest, coming to rest at the very tips of the plumes, I kept hearing a repeat of the young man’s words-- _that spot is more sensitive than I’d thought--_ and I couldn’t help myself. I leaned down slightly, and mouthed the tattooed skin behind his right ear. He tasted just as wonderfully as I knew he would--like rain and wood smoke and honey.   
  
He moaned, and it sounded as if it had been ripped from the very depths of his soul. Then, he pulled away from me, flung the robes back on his body haphazardly, and ran for the door, babbling rapidly--almost incoherently so--the entire time.   
  
“Look Professor, thank you for the rescue, but I really should be going--and, well, that didn’t mean--I mean, I _know_ what it sounded like, but--please, I won’t tell anyone--you know, I’ll just leave, that would really be best given what happened--not that _anything_ happened –”  
  
“Harry.” I said quietly; his name drawn out and savoured on the tongue. I was well-acquainted with using my voice as a tool. The man in question stopped dead in his tracks, looking for all the world like he’d been Stunned.   
  
I glided over to him, hoping, perhaps for the first time in my life, that what I was thinking was writ plain across my face. I stopped right in front of him, looking down at him from my greater height (he’s always been a little . . .  _sensitive_ about his short stature) and, sliding one of my hands into that trademark disheveled mop of black hair, I placed my mouth over his ear . . . And then I damned myself, deciding that, for the first time in twenty years, I was going to have something _I_ wanted.  
  
“A blind man could see that the very last thing you need right now is to be alone,” I whispered sinuously, my words from earlier taking on darker, more seductive connotations, as my tongue traced the shell of his ear.   
  
“What I need . . .” he panted, trying to catch his breath as I nibbled my way down one of the cords of his neck, “. . . not important,” he finally choked out. His fists were clenched at his sides, trembling.   
  
I pulled back from him then for a moment, considering how to reply. Gripping his hair tightly, I tipped his head back until his throat was exposed and he was forced to meet my eyes. “And would you say the same about _my_ needs, Mr. Potter?” I asked; my voice smooth and deep.   
  
He licked his (full) lips nervously (enticingly) before answering. “No, I wouldn’t.” His voice was breathy.   
  
“And if I were to say that I felt I was . . .  _deserving_ of a reward. What would your opinion be?” my voice was husky and low, my pauses drawn out. While we spoke, I was looking into those brilliant eyes, so I noticed when they darkened.   
  
“I believe that I already said that you deserved to get whatever you wanted for all you gave in this godforsaken war.” His voice was stronger this time, less breathy, but still quavered; I saw him swallow convulsively.   
  
“Then we are in agreement,” I growled before taking his mouth in a kiss.   
  
My lips sealed over his, and my teeth nipped at his plump lower lip. He moaned, a desperate, needy sound, opening his mouth to me as his arms wrapped around my neck. I plunged my tongue into his mouth, moving over his palate. My grip on his hair relaxed, cupping the back of his head, and my other hand splayed across the bare skin of his back. As the flash of heat raced across his skin, he arched into my kiss, and then went lax. My hand moved down to one of his arse cheeks to steady him (and I have never held a more magnificent handful, I assure you). I moved my mouth to scrape my teeth over his stubbled jaw as I backed him against the wall in the hallway.   
  
“Please tell me you’ve done this before,” I murmured desperately against his skin. (I may have completely lost my mind to be taking one of my former students to bed, but I sincerely had no desire to be a cradle-robber and steal his innocence. Well, the little innocence he might’ve had left after participating in a war.)   
  
My fears were assuaged, however, when he gasped out, “Charlie . . . I made him-- _ah!--_ keep _some_ of his promises.”   
  
“Good. I don’t have to be gentle, then,” I ground out as I manhandled him the short distance to my bedroom. Once we were inside, pressed against the wall as I continued to plunder his sweet, willing mouth, his arms slid from around my neck to begin unfastening the top buttons of my robe. I hummed in satisfaction, and nipped his lip.   
  
Unfortunately, his brain then decided to rejoin us. Potter jerked his hands away from their (quite pleasurable) task of undoing my buttons, and pulled away from the kiss, his eyes wide and fearful. Sliding sideways along the wall and out of my grasp, he backed up slowly into the hall, his expression panicked.   
  
“Where are you going?” I asked him, my voice devoid of its usual bite in my confusion.   
  
His jerked up, his eyes meeting mine. “I can’t--we can’t do this. Dumbledore--Ron and Hermione--so much trouble--and you hate me, and--we _can’t_ do this!” He muttered frantically, almost more to himself than to me. He was still backing up slowly.   
  
“Potter,” I said slowly. When that garnered no reaction, I tried again. “Harry.”   
  
He stopped moving, looked at me warily.   
  
“Do you want this?” I asked him. I knew at that point that I would have to be direct.   
  
“Want?” His expression was confused, and then grew slightly wistful. “What I want doesn’t matter,” he replied softly, shaking his head.   
  
“Oh, for the love of buggery!” I breathed through clenched teeth. While his propensity for self-sacrifice was beneficial in winning the war, I had little patience for it at that moment. I descended on him, crowding him against the wall. He let out a surprised _meep!_ when I reached down and cupped him through his denims. Looking down, I repeated my question. “Little One, do you want this?”  
  
“I already told you--what I want doesn’t matter. And just who are you calling _Little One_?” the young man pinned to the wall asked.   
  
“I was not addressing _you_ , since you are incapable of giving me a coherent answer,” I replied, not bothering to hide my smirk.   
  
“Well . . . then who _were_ you addressing?” he asked, confused. I rubbed my thumb teasingly over his clothed erection. He understood immediately and blushed a rather fetching shade of pink.   
  
“Now,” I breathed in his ear, “Do you want this? Do you want me to strip you down and find out exactly where this tattoo ends? Shall I trace over it with my tongue? Or should I let my tongue play over _this_ ,” I squeezed slightly, “until you are begging me to let you climax?” I felt him twitch under my hand, even as he tried to verbally deny his desires again. I cut him off. “Oh, no, Harry. Your body has answered for you. Now you need to just . . .  _enjoy_ it.” I hooked a finger through one of his belt loops and marched back into my bedroom, dragging the infuriating young man with me.   
  
I closed the door once we were both inside, and Potter began looking skittish again.   
  
“What’s the matter, Harry? Scared?” I taunted, my voice soft. His eyes lit with fire. (I have always loved Potter-baiting. He’s gorgeous when he’s angry.)   
  
He didn’t respond with words--he threw himself at me. This time I was the one pinned against the wall, having the magic kissed out of me (not that I was complaining, mind). His hands resumed their earlier task of unfastening the buttons of my robes. My own hands meanwhile, were happily kneading his (absolutely _glorious_ ) arse.   
  
He broke the kiss, sliding to his knees with a wicked grin to reach the last of the buttons on my robes. Once he slid them open, he groaned--I was dressed in my standard, formal Wizarding attire, with a black waistcoat over a white button-up, paired with grey trousers. He made quick work of the buttons on the waistcoat--there were only four of them, after all--and began working at the miniscule buttons of my shirt. As soon as he had the first few undone, just enough to bare a small portion of my skin, he leaned in to kiss and suck and nibble. My hands slid into his hair as my eyes slipped shut.   
  
“Do you _have_ to have so many damned buttons?” he whispered feverishly against my skin, his hands still fighting to free me from my restrictive clothing. His enthusiasm was sweetly satisfying.   
  
Rather than dignify his question with a reply, I waited until he’d finished unbuttoning my shirt to give him a gentle push backwards. He looked at me, confusion and a touch of uncertainty in his eyes. I smirked, and slid my robe off my shoulders, before shucking my unbuttoned waistcoat and dress shirt to join my robes in a heap on the floor. Feeling rather predatory, (and looking it too, I was informed later) I licked my lips before speaking.   
  
“I am very … _interested_ in finding out exactly where your lovely phoenix ends.”   
  
He smirked (and I never thought I would see such a Slytherin expression on his face, let me assure you) before he toed off his shoes. He casually popped the button on his denims and lowered the zip, before pulling them down his legs, and sliding them and his socks off his feet. He stood there in his boxers (which were hanging deliciously low on his rather prominent hipbones) for a moment, before he slid them down and kicked them off completely. His face flushed, but he lifted his chin and met my eyes confidently as he stood before me as naked as the day he was born.   
  
I circled him, the fingertips of my left hand trailing across his upper back and chest, reassuring him of my presence as I stared at the complete tattoo. It was heartbreakingly beautiful.   
  
The feathers on the right wing of the phoenix curled around his body, low on his torso, the tips of the feathers ending in the hollow beside his jutting hipbone. The body extended downwards, ending at the top of his arse. The long, brilliant plumage of the tail spread down over his right arse-cheek, disappearing around his leg (causing me to wonder if it was a continuous, unbroken line that wound tantalizingly close to his groin) to curve subtly across the front of his right thigh, ending in a curl around his knee.I stopped my circling, standing in front of him. His blush hadn’t faded--in fact, it had probably deepened, if anything--but his expression was self-assured.   
  
Looking into those very, very green eyes, I simply said, “Beautiful.”   
  
His face softened, and one side of his mouth quirked upwards. “Yeah, it really is,” he agreed.   
  
“I wasn’t just talking about the tattoo,” I whispered against his lips before claiming them in another searing kiss.   
  
Our bodies lined up, and I felt his erection poke me in the thigh. It drew my attention to my own (rather neglected) appendage. Luckily, the young man in my arms had _not_ forgotten about it, as his hands fumbled with the fastenings on my trousers. I shifted away from him slightly, so I could toe off my shoes. He finally managed to undo my trousers, pushing them and my pants down my legs. Stepping out of my clothing, I gripped Potter’s arse firmly, lifting him up. He cottoned on quickly, wrapping his legs around my waist to help support himself.   
  
I walked the half-dozen steps to the bed, and deposited him on its surface none-too-gently. Kicking off my socks, I leaned down to kiss him once more, before joining him. Straddling his thighs, I leaned down to lick and suck at his throat and collarbone; my hands were roaming over his smooth torso, plucking and rolling at his nipples in between mapping out the expanse of toned flesh. His hands clutched at my hair and neck as he bit his lip, fighting not to let a sound escape.   
  
But I wanted to hear all the sounds I was certain he’d make. I wanted to hear every gasp, every moan and cry and have the satisfaction of knowing that _I_ was the one responsible for it. A couple of whispered spell later and his hands were bound above his head, while a Sealing Charm over his burned arm kept it from rubbing--the healing potion was working, but it was still raw.   
  
My hands slid down to rest on his hips, pinning his lower body to the bed, as I moved downwards to his chest. Stopping first at the left nipple, I flicked my tongue over it teasingly before biting down _hard_. At that, he lost the battle to be silent and let out a high-pitched whimper. Smirking against his skin, I moved to the other nipple--sucking at it, while worrying it with my teeth. That elicited a groan. Satisfied, I moved down his body yet again. I shifted from my straddle until I was kneeling between his legs. Pulling the right leg up until his foot rested against bed, I stared at his inner thigh.   
  
Not at the smooth, honey-toned skin. No. At the ink. As it turned out, the tail _was_ inked in one perfect unbroken stream, passing scant inches from his pucker. One hand still resting on the inside of the inked brat’s knee, my other hand swept my hair out of my face before I bent down to taste the flesh of his inner thigh.   
  
I bit and sucked up large, reddish-purple marks, claiming him, leaving a reminder of this night. Once I felt that he had been sufficiently branded, I moved to tongue the inked skin near the apex of his thighs. I felt the now-familiar flash of heat, followed by the equally as familiar magical tingle. There are no words to describe how Potter’s magic tasted. (And for one with my vocabulary, that’s quite a statement.)   
  
When my curious tongue traced a path up his straining length, he threw his head back, his hips bucking as he uttered a “Please!” that sounded as if it had been ripped from the bottom of his being. I decided then that I wanted to discover just how many sounds he could make. I wanted to know if he was a screamer or a gutter-mouth; if he would come with a cry or a gasp.  
  
Summoning a pot of lubricant, I slicked up my fingers as I teased the head of his cock. I sucked the engorged head into my mouth as my tongue flittered over the slit. Pulling off the head, I placed hot, open-mouthed kisses down his shaft, before doing the same on the other side. He strained upwards, seeking more. His thighs trembled, and spread a little wider for me.   
  
Knowing then that he was ready for it, my mouth returned to his cock as my slippery hand began petting his entrance. He moaned, throwing his legs wide open. I began to suck again as my first finger breached him gently. (Despite what I had said to him earlier, I’m not a man who gets off on my partner’s pain. Besides, I knew that there would be plenty of time to be _not-gentle_ with him in due course.)   
  
Slowly, I began bobbing up and down his length, taking a little more into my mouth each time, while I pumped one, and then two fingers in and out of him. I timed it so that as I withdrew from his cock, I was pushing into his pliant body. When I judged it time for the third finger to join the party (as it were), I relaxed my throat, and swallowed him whole – my other hand braced against his hips, so he wouldn’t buck and choke me. My fingers scissored inside him, stretching and searching for a particularly entertaining little bundle of nerves. I found it in short order, and was rewarded when the green-eyed brat began babbling nearly unintelligibly.   
  
“Ah!--oh, oh Merlin, p- _please_ I--can’t, please!--gonna--”  
  
I knew _exactly_ what he was “gonna”, so I pulled back from him completely. He whined in protest.   
  
“Oh, no, Harry,” I growled, “I have plans for you.” I dissolved the binding on his wrists, but left the sealing charm in place. “On all fours, boy.”   
  
Shakily, he slowly moved to comply. (I was both deeply shocked and even more deeply pleased that the insolent whelp was capable of following orders. Before then, I’d had my doubts. Serious doubts. It seemed that all he required was sufficient incentive.) When he was resting on his hands and knees--though he was a tad wobbly--I moved behind him, rubbing my neglected cock against the cleft of his lovely arse. I ran my hands down the wings of his phoenix tattoo (eliciting that delicious heat again) until they came to rest against his slim hips.   
  
I started to press into his body when his choked “No!” stopped me. I pulled away from him, feeling icy and bitter. I closed my eyes and stayed silent. I thought that if I could just wait until he’d left to open my eyes, I’d be able to handle the rejection.   
  
But Harry surprised me. His hands cradled my face as he kissed me softly, before he leaned back to whisper against my lips. “I don’t want my first time with you to be like that. I want to be able to touch you, to see your face.”   
  
Opening my eyes, I stared down into his face. What I saw there was nothing but trust and vulnerability.   
  
Shuffling further up the bed, I manoeuvred the both of us so that the delectable man was straddling my lap. I was kneeling, and, if I extended my arms, I’d be able to grip the headboard and use it as leverage. (Having had a certain amount of experience in these matters, I knew that a little leverage could go a very long way.) “Up,” I murmured, my hands pulling at his hips. He allowed me to shift him into position, his hands resting lightly on my shoulders, his teeth worrying at his bottom lip. Guiding him down, I muttered, “Relax, go slowly,” as the tip of my cock began to nudge into his slick passage.  
  
And so, going so slowly that his legs shook wildly from the strain, he lowered himself down inch by inch onto my cock. Once I was seated balls-deep in the tight heat of his body, he collapsed against my chest, gulping for air. I might’ve told him to quit stalling and _move_ , had I not required those few moments to compose myself and avoid orgasming with the first thrust.  
  
After what felt like an eternity, and yet was simultaneously _entirely_ too brief, he pushed himself upright, mumbling, “’M ready.” He rocked forward hesitantly, burying his face in my shoulder while his arms clutched at me desperately. He swayed backwards slowly, trying to find the right rhythm. After a couple of minutes, he found a steady tempo, rocking back and forth as his hips rose and fell.   
  
That was when I decided to make use of the leverage at my disposal. Relinquishing my hold on his young, enticing body, I grasped the headboard firmly, and thrust upwards forcefully. When a disjointed mash-up of cursing, pleas, and gasps issued forth, I know that I had (once again) found his prostate. So I did it again.   
  
That was when our coupling lost its slow, languorous rhythm, became less about the pleasurable slide of flesh-on-flesh and more about chasing the intense heat pooling in our bellies with wild, animalistic abandon. He lifted his head, his mouth finding mine for a desperate kiss as he ground down frantically on my cock, while I was thrusting (rather viciously) into his willing body. He broke the kiss, his head flung backwards, as he stiffened, coming with a soft, wordless cry. His body tightened around me, and a few short, stuttered thrusts later, I followed him with my own shattering completion.   
  
Our bodies going lax, I fell forward on top of him, taking great heaving breaths. He didn’t seem to mind--his hands stroked through my hair, as he also panted and gasped for air. After a few minutes, I pulled away from him, sliding out of his body with a soft squelch, to summon my wand. Once I had it in hand, I cast a couple of cleaning charms before setting it on my night-table and collapsing back on the bed, unable to keep my eyes open. When I felt my bedmate shift, however, I managed to open one. “Where do you think you’re going?” I asked gently.   
  
“Can’t stay--make trouble,” he began to mutter.   
  
“Brat, you have been making trouble for me for years. If you suddenly stopped now, I’m sure I would be beside myself,” I stated reassuringly, grasping his wrist and tugging him back down. He chuckled, and I nestled him close with one hand in his unruly hair as he used my chest for pillow. After a moment, he wrapped his arms around my waist and threw one leg over mine. I merely pulled the covers up over us, and then let my other hand drift downwards to rest on the back of his toned thigh.  
  
The quiet sound of his breathing quickly lulled me to sleep.   
  


***

  
  
I began waking the next morning when Harry slid from my arms, and out of the bed. I came fully awake, however, when he handed me a mug of coffee, (and I swear, it was heaven in a cup--that man makes better coffee than anyone else I've ever known) before taking a sip of his own. After a few moments in silence, a silence that grew increasingly tense, he finally spoke.   
  
"So . . . I guess I should be going then," he said with his eyes cast to the floor.   
  
"No. No, I really don't think so," I replied evenly.   
  
His gaze was quizzical, and the slightest bit hopeful.   
  
"I believe that I shall require several more mornings like this before I feel . . . sufficiently rewarded for my war efforts," I drawled, sipping at my coffee.   
  
"Mornings like this?" Harry's lips quirked into a crooked smile, as his eyes held a spark of hope.   
  
"Yes. Mornings like this," I pinned him in place with a pointed stare, "Mornings where I wake up to coffee and tattoos."   
  
"That can be arranged," he replied as he settled himself back in my bed. "How many mornings are in order before the Wizarding World has repaid it's debt to you?" he asked. His expression was mockingly serious, but his eyes were dancing with joy.   
  
"Oh, best not think about that," I said coldly--but my smile was warm. "It will take an extraordinarily long time before I have been adequately repaid."   
  
Harry's smile was blinding.   
  


***

  
  
There you have it. The story of how we got together. It wasn't what you expected, was it? Now, I really think it's time for you to be going. My husband will be home soon, and he is not fond of unexpected guests.   
  
And remember--not a word of this to _The Prophet_ or any other media outlet, or you _will_ face my wrath . . .  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
